He utters a loud joyful _chirp_ pauses
for the attention he thus solicits, and then deliberately runs up five
mellow double notes, ending with a metallic "_ting_ chee chee
chee" that sounds as though it had been struck on a triangle. Then a
silence of exactly nine seconds and repeat. As regularly as clock-work
this performance goes on. Time him as often as you will, you can never
convict him of a second's variation. And he is so optimistic and
willing, and his notes are so golden with the yellow of sunshine!
The white-throated sparrow sings nine distinct variations of the same
song. He may sing more, but that is all I have counted. He inhabits
woods, berry-vines, brules, and clearings. Ordinarily he is cheerful,
and occasionally aggravating. One man I knew he drove nearly crazy. To
that man he was always saying, "_And he never heard the man say drink
and the_----." Toward the last my friend used wildly to offer him a
thousand dollars if he would, if he only _would_, finish that
sentence. But occasionally, in just the proper circumstances, he
forgets his stump corners, his vines, his jolly sunlight, and his
delightful bugs to become the intimate voice of the wilds. It is night,
very still, Very dark. The subdued murmur of the forest ebbs and flows
with the voices of the furtive folk--an undertone fearful to break the
night calm. Suddenly across the dusk of silence flashes a single thread
of silver, vibrating, trembling with some unguessed ecstasy of emotion:
"_Ah! poor Canada Canada Canada Canada!_" it mourns passionately,
and falls silent.
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